


Praise

by Janekfan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Compliment your bard, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hypothermia, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25260097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Everyone needs it now and again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 336





	Praise

Geralt grunted when Jaskier practically fell into his lap, reaching for his ale and downing the rest in three large swallows. He was sweaty, flushed from his set, and earned more than enough coin for his own meal. Instead, he continued to pick at the bones left from the roast chicken Geralt inhaled earlier, sopping up the grease with a crust of brown bread before turning back to him with full cheeks to ask:

“How was I?” Geralt never understood why he cared about his opinion, it’s not like he knew anything about trivial things like song and dance. Was it not enough he stayed to listen? That he sounded good? Did his adoring fans leave him wanting? Did he really need Geralt inflating his ego any more? The bard could be so needy at times as he supposed most humans tended to be so instead Geralt shoved him over so he could stand.

“Headed to bed.” Let the bard figure out his own insecurities and leave him out of it.

It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault. He stayed where Geralt put him, far out of the way and yet somehow still getting hurt by a straggling creature before, with the silver dagger he kept in his boot, dispatching it himself. 

“I thought I told you--!” Jaskier shrank back, the reek of adrenaline flooding Geralt’s sensitive nose, but not fear. 

“I did, I w’was.” 

“Let me see.” Gruffly, he grabbed him by the arm, ignoring his yelp in favor of examining the oozing slash along his bicep. “You’ll live to play your damnable lute.” 

“Oh, good. For a moment I thought the brute might’ve taken it clean off.” He laughed, shaky, a bit wet, and heaved a deep and trembling breath. “Quite the splendid kill if I do say so myself.” 

“Stop being dramatic.” He didn’t mean to sound so gruff. He was worried. When that thing took off after him like that he--

“So sorry. I’ll keep my heroics to myself then. Maybe write a song of my own.” Well, Geralt thought, he was fine if he could chatter on and on like normal. 

“How do I look?” A messy crown of late fall flowers mussed up his hair with its twigs and buds, no doubt put there by the children he was playing with earlier in the day. The children he was using to get close enough to flirt shamelessly with their mothers. He sat across from him at the table, his own mug in his hand, and his face was red from drink, orange petals highlighting the blue in his eyes as they spiraled by them on their way into his ale. 

“Ridiculous.” When Jaskier’s face fell, he did his best to hide it behind the rim of his cup. Geralt didn’t see him eat today and he certainly hadn’t been at his plate as the scraps were still there. His throat moved with each swallow and he slammed the empty vessel onto the table with a gasp, grin wild and wide and fake. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt meant it as a warning. He was going to be hungover tomorrow and bitching on the road. 

“You always say such wonderfully kind things, Geralt.” Jaskier’s eyes were suspiciously bright in the dim light of the tavern when he bolted upright. “And you’re right! I’m completely out of ale.” 

“Told you.” Jaskier’s footfalls were unsteady, uneven, boots scuffing the dirt. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He was sullen, head no doubt aching even in the weak early morning sun. 

“We’re not wasting today.” 

“I’ll keep up.” 

“If you didn’t overindulge so much, this wouldn’t happen.” Miracle of miracles, the bard didn’t so much as hum for the rest of the day. After a dinner of not much more than old bread, Jaskier tugged his lute to him. “Do you have to?” He meant to tease, something to ruffle the songbird’s feathers and get him to loosen up. “I had such a quiet day.” After too long a beat of silence in which Geralt began to worry he’d been too hard on him, Jaskier met his eyes. 

“Sorry.” He smiled. No harm done then. “I’m gonna sleep off the rest of this hangover.” 

Geralt returned to camp, frustrated he hadn’t managed to track the beast tonight, and Jaskier handed him a skewered rabbit when he sat by the fire, bit charred on the outside from cooking too long, but decently skinned. 

“What’s this?” 

“I set some snares.” There was pride in his tone and blood under his nails. “How’d your hunt go?” Perhaps growling while he tore into the haunch of an animal wasn’t the answer he was looking for, but it got the point across. “That good, huh?” 

“Hm.” Wordless, he accepted the second coney, as burned as the first, but it didn’t stop him from licking the rendered fat from his fingertips. Jaskier’s remaining half was thrust under his nose. 

“Go on.” He shrugged. “I didn’t do anything today.” 

“Thanks.” He threw the remaining bones into the fire, letting the fire burn away the scents of food to avoid attracting anything untoward and collapsed back into his bedroll. 

“How was it?” Tentative, almost painful, like Jaskier pulled it out of himself with a fishhook.

“Fine.” 

“You idiot!” Geralt didn’t know why he was so angry, hauling him out of the freezing water; it was an honest mistake, even he’d almost slipped on the frozen log and Jaskier was the one who suggested they find a safer crossing in the first place.

And Jaskier was the one suffering for Geralt’s foolishness. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You need to be smart!” He shook him. He was afraid, still, even with him right there in his arms. The way he disappeared so quickly under the surface danced behind his eyes. “I can’t keep rescuing you from your own senselessness.” 

“I can be smart.” 

“Jaskier?” He was shivering, exhausted. Soaked from his dip in the icy river. 

“I promise,” his clammy forehead connected with Geralt’s chest as he hid his face. “I promise.” Salt scent and distress filled the air, his shoulders hitched with a sob. 

“Okay, bardling.” He stood, drawing Jaskier up with him and whistling for Roach. “I know you can.” The shivering was intermittent now, his pale face tinged with blue.

“I can.” He sniffed, miserable, dripping, no warmer for Geralt against his back nor Roach between his knees, and he cried until the cold dragged him under. 

All but throwing coin left and right, Geralt obtained a room, lighting the fireplace with barely a thought until it was roaring and stripping Jaskier out of the sodden silks as quickly as he could with their damn fiddly buttons and ties and then himself. His skin was snow white and lined with rivers of dusky sky just below the translucent surface. He’d stopped shivering.

“Jaskier.” Geralt pulled the mattress clear off the bed and onto the floor before tugging the bard into the quilts with him, tangling their legs together and pressing him close. “Come on, Jaskier.” Vigorously, he rubbed broad palms up and down his back, desperate to put some warmth back into him, heart almost stopping when the human remained boneless and limp. When he tucked Jaskier’s face into his neck he could feel warm breath against his throat; he just wouldn’t wake and his body was stealing every bit of heat Geralt could create and still. 

He wouldn’t wake. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt embraced him harder, nigh laying on top of him as a living blanket and damning for the first time their fairly equal size. 

“Crushing me.” Relief flooded Geralt like wine; If he could complain he would be all right. 

“If you hadn’t fallen into a river you graceless twit, I wouldn’t have to.” Voice angry, touch soft, Geralt tried to coax his face from where it was buried with no luck. Now he was vibrating with tremors both large and small, teeth clattering together with such force Geralt worried he might crack them. Hot tears and the smell of salt and misery and Geralt patted his head awkwardly. “I know you didn’t mean to.” Geralt waited for Jaskier to fall asleep, letting the bard curl up into him, before following suit. 

“Are you still cold?” Jaskier shook his head, arms encircling his knees, as he sat on the bed roll near the fire, pensive and mute.

“Why?” 

“You haven’t played anything in a while.” It was possible there was damage to his fingers, a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless. 

“You prefer the quiet.” He did. It was no secret. But that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy seeing the joy in Jaskier’s face when he composed a particularly clever line or mastered some ridiculous fingering. And his songs weren’t all bad. When they were about other things. 

“You could set some snares?” It was nice to come back to the rabbit, hot and crisp (over crisp really, but Geralt wasn’t picky), and to go to bed pleasantly full and pleasantly surprised that Jaskier picked up these skills. A bad hunt made him into even more rotten company, but Jaskier always gladly gave over what he had to try and lift his spirits be it extra food or a bawdy joke, a truly terrible limerick one time. 

“I’ll just ruin what I catch.” This wasn’t right at all. Jaskier should be bragging about himself. He did before. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Of course he couldn’t be delicate about whatever was bothering him. Always barreling headlong into these situations with his foot jammed firmly in his mouth.

“I.” Jaskier hugged himself tighter and turned his face away but Geralt could smell the tears again. “I don’t know?” That made even less sense. He always knew everything it seemed. 

“What do you mean?”

“I _tried_ to be.” He swallowed a sob, keeping himself as quiet as possible. “Wanted to be? Useful? Good?” 

“Jaskier--”

“Nevermind.” He laughed, it didn’t sound nice. “I’m just, what did you say? A graceless twit?” He laughed again and he sounded choked. “Falling into rivers and needing to be saved. Wasting your time.” 

“Jaskier, I didn’t--”

“You’re right, I’m not smart enough for the road.” 

“You’re tired.” Probably aching in every muscle from shaking so hard the night before. “Go to sleep and tomorrow will be better.” 

“You think?”

“What does it matter what I think?” 

“You’re my.” He trailed off, miserable and tired before continuing in a whisper, like if he spoke quietly enough maybe it would be true. “My friend.” Quieter still. “Even if I’m not yours.” For as bright and bubbly as the bard’s behavior typically was, this melancholy was highly unusual and Geralt wondered if he was ill. “I want to please you.” He swiped his eyes, huffed and gave Geralt a watery, trembling shadow of a smile. “But I seem to come up short every time.” While he watched, Jaskier shrank under the weight of his gaze, lips now a white line as he tried to control himself and failed, turning away again to escape. On more than one occasion the witcher had lambasted his exaggerated emotions and watched him struggle to gain even one word of approval. 

_Oh._

Words. 

Didn’t it all come down to _words_ with his poet. 

And he spoke so few of them that each carried a significant weight with Jaskier and Geralt would be the first to admit that seldom were they kind. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Jaskier scrubbed his face hard with the heels of his hands when the witcher didn’t speak again. “I’m just, you know how I, how I get sometimes.” There were days, weeks, few and far between, where Jaskier’s emotions seemed laid bare. Where he was less able to laugh, dipped more into drink, slept later and more fitfully than usual. “This is irrational, like you said, I’m tired.” When he made to settle in for the night, Geralt moved to stop him with a palm on his shoulder. Too bright blue eyes limned with shadow and lashes damp with tears glanced up at him and Jaskier shrank away, cheeks colored in embarrassment, no doubt expecting another reprimand. 

“I’ve upset you.” That blue seemed to fill his face, wide and fearful.

“No! No, no, you haven’t. I’m. It’s _me_. _I_ do this. Get needy and, and, and woeful. ‘Tortured artist’ and all that.” He pushed at Geralt, uselessly, and if he truly wanted him to leave he would, but he could tell his heart wasn’t in it. “It’s nothing. Truly. I’m just. I’m just tired.” 

“You are not nothing.” 

“I didn’t say--”

“What you feel.” Geralt could do this for his bard, he could because Jaskier did these things for him. Defended him. Sang annoying, flattering songs about him. “What you _feel_ isn’t nothing and it’s alright to _need_.”

“You don’t.” Forced around emotion clotting up his throat and to Geralt’s dismay, it seemed he would cry again. This was supposed to be helping, not hurting him further.

“The other day, when you asked how you sounded.” At least now his brow was furrowed in confusion. “Good.” There was more to it than that but Geralt wasn’t ready to compose odes to his traveling companion quite yet. “And when the flowers--good. It was. Nice. Seeing you around children. Happy.” 

“Geralt.” He lifted Jaskier’s chin. 

“I’m proud you learned how to catch game. I was grateful that you cooked it for me.” Tentatively, the bard’s lips turned up into a small trembling smile. “I yell.” Jaskier chuffed, fingers curling about Geralt’s wrist. 

“You do.” 

“When I get. Scared.” 

“You get scared.” 

“Leave off.” The smile grew into something more real. “You fell into the water because I was impatient. Not because you’re.” 

“A twit?” 

“Maybe not a graceless one.” 

“A joke!” 

“Jaskier.” He cupped his neck and tugged him into his chest, not unlike the night after the river. “I like when you steal my ale and finish my bread.” Jaskier breathed deep, risked circling Geralt with his arms. “I leave it for you.” And he risked holding him that much tighter. “You are good.” Too good to be traveling the path. “You are useful.” When defending him with songs and fists both, when bartering for room and board, or demanding fair coin for a job well done. When pampering him in the bath and allowing him to be unguarded in those small moments. The tension seemed to ooze out of the man in his lap as he took a shaky breath. And another. Slow and measured, like he would do before a concert, and Geralt could _feel_ the exhaustion creep in to take its place. 

So he tipped them gently down, drew up the blankets around them both and let Jaskier keep hiding until he was certain with the slowing of his pulse that he’d fallen deeply asleep before pulling away and tucking him back in. 

“And. You are my friend.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just feelin quarantine a little harder these days I guess


End file.
